Don't Look Down (17 page)

Rick lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes. That’s a trade secret, though. And he’s helping me out.”

“His secret’s safe with me.” He picked up her soda and took a drink. “What have you got so far?”

It took a second before she remembered that he was talk
ing about her ideas for the garden. “Nothing much,” she confessed. “I was kind of distracted.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Funny, the gesture from Daniel left her vaguely disgusted, but Rick’s fingers brushing her temple made her shiver. “Then let’s just sit and drink your soda.”

That sounded surprisingly nice. “Can we look at garden pictures?” she asked, tugging the magazine stack closer.

She needed to run a short errand to Lantana Road so she could scout out the probable perch for Leedmont’s photographer, but she preferred not to do that in broad daylight, and she didn’t quite feel…together enough to be stealthy and clever tonight. And since she was on hold with the Kunz thing until after the wake and until she could take a few minutes to talk to Frank Castillo again, she might as well relax for a day. And spending time with Rick doing nothing was still new and rare enough that it didn’t feel either ordinary or mundane.

“I would like that,” he returned, smiling.

Wednesday, 7:18 a.m.

T
he great white shark shot up through the murky water, straight at her. Samantha’s eyes flew open and she sat up, a scream rising in her throat. At the sound of the
Jaws
theme ringing from the nightstand, she swallowed her shriek and grabbed the phone. “Fuck,” she muttered, lifting it. “Do you know what damn time it is?”

“Did you want me to ask around for you or not, cupcake?” Bobby LeBaron’s voice returned.

She pushed mangled bed hair out of her eyes, glancing around for Rick even though he was probably already in his office, working. “What did you find out?”

“First things first, Jellicoe. This is gonna cost you.”

“I told you it would be worth a hundred bucks.”

“Uh-uh. Richard Addison’s squeeze can pay a thousand bucks for what I’ve got.”

Samantha blew out her breath. Greedy son of a bitch. Still, she’d played this game before. “Two hundred, or go sell it to somebody else.”

He hesitated. She could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. “I want the cash up front.”

Well, it wasn’t going to get any better than that. “Are you at your shop?”

“Yep. Some of us work early hours.”

“And some of us work late hours. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Use the back door. I don’t open till ten.”

Samantha closed her phone and dove into the closet for some clothes. Whatever the info was, it was about damned time something had turned up. Suspicions or not, she needed that pesky proof Castillo was always harping about.

She brushed her teeth and pulled her hair back into a tail, then headed down the hall for Rick’s office. “’Morning,” she said, leaning in.

He looked up from his computer. “Is it later than I think, or is something deathly wrong?” he asked, glancing at the clock.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, walking in to plant a kiss on his wavy black hair. “I have to go follow up on something.”

“A clue?”

“Maybe. I’ll probably go by the office too, so I’ll see you later.”

Rick caught her fingers as she brushed by him. “Do you need a sidekick?”

“No. It’s just conversation-type stuff.” Cool. He’d asked instead of demanded. Her heart did a funny little flop. Certain as she was about his feelings, the fact that he’d begun making concessions to her odd way of life felt…good. She kissed him again, this time on his sensuous mouth. “I’ll call in and let you know I’m not dead.”

With a quick grin he went back to the computer. “That would be nice. Take the SLR.”

Samantha pulled into one of the loading area slots at the back of the strip mall. The SLR wasn’t the most subtle car in the world, but she didn’t plan on staying long.

She rapped on the white metal door. Taking into account that Bobby would have to actually stand to answer her knock, she wasn’t surprised when she had to wait nearly three minutes before the knob rattled and opened.

“Okay, what’ve you got?” she asked, slipping into the back of the shop and putting a couple of feet between her and the fence.

Panting, he closed the door and leaned back against it. She didn’t like that; his bulk alone made him a formidable barricade. The front windows and door were barred, but in an emergency she could probably put a TV through something and get out. He’d never catch her in the open.

“Where’s the cash?” he asked.

Pulling the wad out of the pocket of her light jacket, she set it on a cabinet. “Right here. But you don’t get to keep it if I don’t like what you have to say.”

“Oh, you’ll like it. You’re looking for a real Van Gogh, right? Blue lily pads?”

That was it
. “Where did you see it?”

“I didn’t. I got a call. Some guy with one of those Darth Vader voice changers looking for names of fences who might handle that kind of merchandise.”

“And what did you tell him?”

He held out one meaty hand. “Cash first, cupcake.”

Since he’d identified the Van Gogh, his information was probably legit. With a frown she handed it over, evading his fingers when he tried to close them over hers. “Talk, Bobby.”

“You know, I was thinking. Addison’s got a shitload of valuables. We could work out something to relocate ’em. It’d
be sweet. And you could probably empty half the house before he ever caught on.”

Samantha folded her arms across her chest. “You know, the money was for information, but the ass-kicking is gonna be for free.”

“All right, all right. I told him I could probably help him out if he came by before nine o’clock this morning.”

She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight o’clock. “Okay. You don’t mind if I hang out, do you?”

“Damn right I do. You’re bad for business, Jellicoe. The guys I hang out with know you’re straight. You hide anywhere you want, as long as nobody sees you.
I
don’t even want to see you.”

“Fine. Is he coming to the front or the back door?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Get lost.”

“Get out of the fucking way.”

With a rumble of amusement Bobby lugged himself sideways. Before he could change his mind, Sam grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open.

“It feels weird, don’t it?” Bobby said to her backside.

“What?”

“Not being wanted by the scum you used to be too good to hang out with.”

She turned around to face him. “You took my cash, Bobby. If you rat me out to this guy, you’re really not gonna be happy with me.”

The SLR couldn’t stay, but she wasn’t sure where she could park it and have it still be there when she went back to it. Next time she went out looking for bad guys, she was taking a less obvious and way less valuable damn car. Finally she decided to park it behind the gas station on the corner. It was less than ideal for tailing somebody, but she didn’t have much time to plan this out.

At eight-fifteen she climbed the drain pipe beside Bobby’s back door and settled herself onto the flat roof. Even this early and in January it was already warm up there, and she shed her jacket, using it to lean her elbows on. She could just smell the doughnuts from the coffee shop at one end of the strip mall, and her stomach rumbled in response. Since Bobby’s instructions had been “before nine,” though, she needed to stay where she was.

At twenty-eight past, an ’84 Chevy pulled up to the back of the shop. She didn’t recognize the guy who got out, but as he reached into the backseat and pulled out a stereo, she relaxed again. Apparently Bobby did most of his fencing work before regular business hours. Great. As long as the cops didn’t drive up and find her staked out on the roof, she didn’t much care what he did. Stereo guy left a few minutes later minus the stereo, and she settled down again.

It was past eight-forty when another car pulled into the loading area. Samantha leaned over the edge of the roof to get a look. A shiny black BMW. Okay, that was interesting. That car didn’t fit in any better than hers did.

The car slowed down, then moved past the TV shop and circled around to the front. Somebody was nervous. Crawling on her elbows and knees, she edged toward the front of the roof. The BMW’s windows were tinted, and she couldn’t make out anything more than that there was one person in the front seat.

After two minutes the driver door swung open a few inches, then wider. Sam held her breath. This was the guy. Whoever stepped out of the car was the one who had killed Charles Kunz.

Her waist began playing “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” Loudly.

Shit, shit, shit
. She grabbed the phone and turned it off. As
she did, the door below slammed closed again. The BMW started up and squealed into reverse. She’d just been made.

Lurching to her feet, she swung over the narrow ledge and dropped to the ground. She sprinted for her car, but by the time she crossed the lot the BMW was gone westbound down the boulevard. She’d caught the damned license number, but had also seen the Enterprise rental sticker on the bumper. Whoever had the Van Gogh knew a little bit about protecting himself.

“Fuck,” she growled, hurling the cell phone into the passenger seat.
That
was why she didn’t carry phones with her when she was on the job.

Now she had to decide whether to let Frank have the license number—which would be a difficult decision considering that unless she gave up Bobby LeBaron, there was nothing illegal or suspicious about anyone driving to a TV repair shop. In the meantime, she had an Enterprise office to break into, now, unless she could figure out something more efficient. This just kept getting better and better.

“I am
not
going to pretend to work for Rick Addison,” Stoney stated, folding his arms.

“It’s to help me, not him,” Samantha returned, putting the silver SLR into park. “Come on. You busted up my stakeout. You owe me.”

“You should have told me what you were doing. I can’t believe you went to see Bobby LeBaron instead of me.”

“You’re retired. I needed somebody who isn’t.”

“That’s it. I’m unretiring.”

“No, you are not.” Thank God he didn’t know about the Harkley break-in. This was bad enough. “Come on, Stoney, we can argue later. By the way, somebody might call you looking to unload an Alberto Giacometti prototype. Act like you’re interested.”

He nodded. “I might be, actually. Who’s liberat—”

“For the last time,” she broke in, “if I’m retired, you’re retired. No working with some hack who gets you tossed into jail. You’re my only family, remember?”

“I remember. Of course I also remember you telling me to hook up with somebody else for Venice.”

“That’s because I knew you couldn’t find anybody else who could pull that job.”

“Yeah. And it’s a damned shame to see the world’s best cat losing her nerve.”

She scowled. “I didn’t lose anything. Knock it off.”

Patting her knee, he sent her a grin. “Whatever you say, honey. And the Giacometti?”

“The Kunz estate owns it. But with the homicide investigation ongoing, the insurance company isn’t releasing anything. That statue, though, isn’t on the insurance roster.”

“Sweet deal.”

“
You are retired
. Now are you going to help me with this other crap, or not?”

He sighed. “What is it?”

“Just go into the Enterprise office and give ’em this license number,” she said, handing over the piece of paper. “Tell them Rick was in an accident and whoever drove this car is the only witness. We need a name and a phone number.”

“And you can’t do it because…?”

“Because I don’t work for Rick. People know my face.”

Stoney slammed the passenger door open. “Too many damned people know your face. I’ll be right back.”

This was the best and most legal way she could come up with to get information on the driver of the BMW. Rick wouldn’t like that she was throwing his name around, but as she’d said, her methods encompassed anything and everything that would win her the bet. Of course she’d already
spend two hundred and twenty bucks to win a one hundred dollar bet, but the money had always been beside the point.

Stoney came back just as she was about to start chewing her fingernails. “Did you get it?” she asked as he dropped back into the car.

“Yeah, but you’re not gonna like it.” He handed over a neatly printed piece of paper.

“‘John Smith?’ You’re kidding me, right?”

“Apparently the guy had fake ID. I did get an address on top of the phone number, though.”

She looked at it. “It’s the marina. The Sailfish Club.”

“What?”

“The address. The phone number probably is, too.”

“Sorry, honey. Dead end.”

Slowly, she pocketed the paper. “I don’t think so. It’s probably somebody who knows the Sailfish Club. I wouldn’t pick it as a phony address. Would you?”

“No. That’s pretty slim, though.”

“I know. But it’s something. Now I have to figure out what to do with it.”

Stretching, Samantha checked her watch. Just before ten p.m. She’d delayed going to Lantana Road for two days, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. Beside her on the deep couch Rick was scribbling in the margins of the revised Leedmont proposal.

She smiled. Most business tycoons of her acquaintance were hands-on to some extent, but Rick had raised it to an art form. He’d told her before that he enjoyed what he did, but she would have known that just from the way he worked a contract. Changing a word or two could alter the course of millions of dollars, and he knew every trick in the book. Heck, he’d probably written the book.

He looked up at her. “What?”

“I was just thinking you’d look cute with a pair of those granny reading glasses on.”

“Mm. Are you going to eat the rest of the popcorn? I’m only asking because you’ve been hogging the bowl.”

“You’re not watching the movie, so you can’t have any popcorn,” she countered, indicating the mammoth screen that had dropped from its recess in the ceiling.

“I am watching the movie.”

“Prove it: What’s the name of the monster with the wings?”

Rick set aside his paperwork. “That’s a trick question. The winged monster with one head is Rodan, and the one with three heads is Monster X.”

With a grin she handed over the popcorn bowl. “Excellent. I have to run an errand. I’ll be back by eleven-thirty.”

He stood when she did. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t. It’s nothing dangerous. I just have to match a picture with a location, and before you ask, because of lighting and stuff I can’t do it during the day.”

“Okay.” Blue eyes studied her face. “But at least tell me where you’re going.”

That was fair. He hadn’t asked a single question about her trip to Bobby LeBaron’s. “A little north of downtown.”

“By eleven-thirty.”

“Yep.” She wrapped her hands into the front of his T-shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. “Tell me how the movie ends.”

“You already know.”

“Not for me. For you. It’s a quiz.”

“Great. Sam, be careful,” he said, running his hands down her shoulders to take her fingers. “I like all your parts arranged just as they are.”

“No sweat.”